A Matter of Passion
by hobnailedboots
Summary: Aberforth/Minerva. Mentions of Minerva/Albus and Albus/Gellert. Aberforth knows he's not better than his brother at much, but in some areas he still holds the upper hand.


**Title: **A Matter of Passion

**Author: **hobnailedboots

**Pairing: **Aberforth Dumbledore/Minerva McGonagall, hints at Albus/Gellert

**Word Count: **About 770, give or take

**Fandom: **Harry Potter

**Summary:** [This assumes that they're all about the same age. In canon, I believe Minerva is a good three decades younger than Albus, but _accept it._] Set whilst they're all still at school, before Ariana's death.

**Rating: **PG-13

My brother. My stupidly perfect brother.

Anyone but him. He's too polite. I don't know what he'll say when she tells him, as she no doubt will – he'll probably not accept her, and then she'll crumble. Inwardly, of course. She is a Gryffindor. Outwardly, she'll stay composed, and keep up her position of best friend to Albus. Even then, though, she'll be usurped. Gellert is coming to stay again this summer, and Albus is almost indecently excited.

Perhaps he will say he loves her too, simply to avoid a scene. Perhaps they shall marry. Perhaps they'll have small half-Scottish children with blue wildcat glares and tufts of black and auburn hair. It could be quaint. Sweet, even. No doubt mother would approve. But I've seen the looks. I may be nearly dumb but at least I'm not blind. No matter what, he will always go to sleep dreaming not of her but of his other best friend.

We're not even friends, me and her. I just catch her eye occasionally – in the Common Room when she's reading, at a Quidditch match when she's feigning disinterest in the flying because Albus has never liked it (_HE'S SCARED OF HEIGHTS, I BET YOU TEN GALLEONS HE TOLD YOU HE THOUGHT QUIDDITCH WAS A SPORT INVENTED TO SUPPRESS THE MASSES OR SOMETHING ELSE EQUALLY RIDICULOUS_), when I'm helping Ogg with rounding up the Bowtruckles and she's petting the Thestrals and I don't think many people know she can see them, judging by how pale she goes when she sees me – and her gaze is always one of disapproval. Sorry. Sorry for existing. Don't worry, I don't take up any of my brother's attention. It's the blondes you've got to watch for.

She looks down upon me merely because I am one year younger than she is. No, that's not it. She looks down on me because my brother looks down on me. She most probably believes everything he says about me, too. As if I'd spend my time fondling goats! Besides the obvious, I'm far too busy looking after the sister we share only in name. Ariana likes Hollow Farm. It's only next door, so it's safe, you see. She likes the calves and the way that they lick your face, honest and welcoming and even though you've only got two legs and no fur or hooves you're suddenly one of their herd.

I do like the goats the most, it's true. They're hardy and practical and violent. But they're always nice to children, butting them gently with their heads. Ariana likes that too. "Ha hmm hmm," she says, nimble little hands flittering over their skulls. "Ha hmm hmm." The animals seem to love her almost as much as I do. Even geese, the sociopaths of the animal world, gather round her like petals round nectar, honking (softly, if such a thing is possible), and rustling their rears as they nudge one another, jostling for attention.

Nobody fights in Hollow Farm.

Albus, I think, has almost forgotten she exists, like that experimental potion he left to explode in the bathroom. Which I had to tidy up, without magic, as _he _was writing a very important paper. Certainly he likes everyone else to be oblivious to the 'home situation', as he calls it – you should have seen his cringing unspoken apology to Grindelwald when he was first introduced to her. '_Oh, but she's not my fault,' _his face said. '_She's such a burden, I hope she doesn't bother you too much whilst you're here'_. He's pathetic.

If I spent time holed up in my room away from reality I'm sure I'd become learned too. But no matter. Knowing runes and inventing secret squiggly signs for your _club_ does not help in matters of real emotion. And in passion, at least, I am superior to my brother. I care more than him, I love more than him. But you only see the lies he spreads.

_He's such a strange boy. And the way he stares is rather disconcerting. But his eyes – blue like his brother's – enter my thoughts and make me doubt Albus' buoyant words. What else do I have, really, but words? What else?_


End file.
